only the air you took
by sunsetdelilah
Summary: X-Men: First Class, Erik/Charles Teàrlach . Roman Britain AU. Teàrlach is the son of a Pictish leader, Erik is a captured Roman centurion with a mysterious past. Their friendship is unlikely, but it will become so much more...  Full description inside!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Roman Britain AU, circa 2nd century AD. Teàrlach is the son of a Pictish leader, respected for the powers of his mystical inner eye. Erik is a Roman centurion with a mysterious past, captured by the Picts in the aftermath of a battle. Friendship is unlikely; alliance next to impossible; love, the biggest surprise of all.

(Yes, this is strongly influenced by Michael Fassbender's movie Centurion, but not so much as to warrant describing it as a crossover. Moreover, _Teàrlach_ is the Scottish Gaelic version of Charles - not Pictish, I know, but as the Pictish language is extinct it's the closest equivalent I could find. Also mutant evolution is happening a little bit early here but I'm sure y'all can handle it and Erik for one barely knows about his power at this point.)

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><p><strong>only the air you took – part one<strong>

They had captured him that very night, he knew. When he felt it, Teàrlach was holding a vigil for a child who had succumbed to fever; something he did not because it was required of him, but for the comfort he knew it brought the living in their time of mourning.

The man's rage was a tangible thing; Teàrlach felt it like a punch to the gut and pressed both fingers to his temple in an attempt to shield himself slightly from the blinding combination of pain and fury and grief.

Among his people, Teàrlach's powers had always been feared and respected - when he was younger, he had been sent to live with a witch who owed her life to the tribe's warriors, and particularly their leader Murtholic, Teàrlach's father. He had learned much there: how to set a bone and treat any number of wounds; the many properties of herbs; the ancient rituals, common and arcane, that their people had followed for as long as anyone could remember. More that that, he had learned from what she was unable to teach him, and had worked silently, on his own, to develop what the witch had called his inner eye.

Tugging his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders, Teàrlach murmured a blessing over the child's body and stepped out of the tent, straightening in the cold night air. Near the village centre he could make out his father's form, standing over a kneeling man who was struggling fiercely in the grip of three men holding him down.

Teàrlach stood in his rightful place at his father's right hand. Wind howled through the tents and whipped his hair about his head, but his attention was focused solely on the strange man who looked unlike any Roman he'd ever seen before.

He said as much, and Murtholic looked at his son. "He is not Roman," he said simply. "You will tell me if he lies?"

Teàrlach nodded, and watched as Murtholic dealt the man a heavy blow across the cheek. The tribesmen roared as the man slumped in his captors' arms, weak from injuries and travel. His eyes burned bright with hate, and Teàrlach found himself unable to look away.

"I am Murtholic," his father said in accented Latin. "I command here. You are my prisoner now, centurion."

The man spat at Murtholic's feet. "Go to hell." His voice was flat, and he spoke in the guttural Pictish dialect of the area. Teàrlach raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Murtholic revealed rotting teeth in a parody of a smile.

"What is your name?"

The man kicked out behind him, aiming blindly for the knee of one of his captors, and earned himself a harsh kick to the stomach that left him heaving and gasping for air.

"What is your name?" Murtholic asked again.

Blood had gathered on the man's lip and was already congealing in the cold. He met Murtholic's gaze, glaring, but remained silent.

Murtholic turned to his son. "His name?"

Teàrlach's finger rose and the men fell silent as he focused, ignoring the wary look the man turned on him. His inner eye could be fickle with the strong-willed, and it took a moment to steady himself against the man's emotional turmoil and plunge past it, deeper, into his thoughts and memories.

"Erik," he said finally. He watched as Erik's eyes widened, then turned back to his father. "The Romans know him as Gaius Crispus, but his true name is Erik."

"Erik," Murtholic repeated thoughtfully. "Certainly not Roman. Yet you fight with them and wear their armour." Erik's struggles had ceased the moment Teàrlach said his name, and he was now kneeling stiffly, staring at the trees in the distance as though by sheer force of will he could transport himself to freedom.

The sound of Murtholic's dagger being drawn broke Erik's trance. His eyes - a piercing blue-gray in contrast with his muddy, blood-streaked skin - followed the glinting metal as Murtholic flipped the dagger in his hand and offered the hilt to Teàrlach.

"Here, my son," he grunted, "show the man how gracious our hospitality can be."

Teàrlach reached for the blade, hesitant. He was not a warrior; far from it, to his father's chagrin, he considered himself a healer. It wasn't unusual for Murtholic to ask his son to draw blood in the name of honour - or merely for the satisfaction of seeing him do it.

"Father…"

"Tch!" Teàrlach knew that noise; it meant he had better step in line and he had better do it fast. Mystic or not, no one disobeyed Murtholic lightly.

Teàrlach drew a deep breath and took the blade. He misliked the feel of its weight in his hand, the bloodstained bone and leather handle stiff and unyielding against his fingers.

"Hold his head," he told the men, and fought back a grimace at how small his voice sounded.

Erik began to struggle again, grunting as a hand wrapped around his throat and two more yanked his hair back.

"_Cowards!_" he yelled. "Filthy savages!"

Teàrlach pressed the blade to the man's lips, very aware that the less Erik said right now, the better. He would have liked to know more about this Roman who was not a Roman, but it was taking all his will to hold back the crashing waves of rage and fear and pain rolling through his mind, and his father was waiting.

Steadying a tremble in his hand, Teàrlach made a swift, surgical movement. A gash opened across Erik's cheek; blood welled and dripped down as he growled and fought.

Job done, Teàrlach returned the dagger to his father, who wiped the blood on Erik's chest, opening another cut in the process, and returned it to its sheath. Murtholic nodded in satisfaction.

"Take him away," he ordered curtly, ignoring Erik's shouts as he was dragged to a nearby tent.

Teàrlach watched him go in thoughtful silence before returning to his silent vigil, and tried to shake the feeling that he was watching over two souls that night.

Around them, the wind howled on, relentless and cold.

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><p>AN: I know this is a short intro, but I'm already working on the second chapter and should have it up soon!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and put this on their story alert subscriptions! I wasn't sure how this idea would be received, but feedback's been good, and I'm really enjoying writing it. There's a lot of potential - I'm excited to see where I can take it! Reviews, ideas, comments, anything - all are welcome :)

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><p><strong>only the air you took – part two<strong>

Erik woke, and when the pain washed over him from all sides, groaned and closed his eyes, willing himself anywhere but bound hand and food in the middle of a Pictish encampment.

It seemed he wouldn't be allowed any peace, though, as the tent flap lifted and the Pict who'd cut his cheek walked in. Everything in him told Erik to turn away, yet he found himself studying the man - he looked small, frankly; someone who could easily be overcome in battle. His face was open and trusting and a hint of a smile played on his lips. His eyes, though; Erik saw a wisdom there, a profound knowledge beyond his years.

"I brought food and water," the man said by way of greeting, and placed a plate of bread and cheese at Erik's side. A dented cup of water followed. "I'm Teàrlach."

Erik stared at him.

"You _can_ talk to me, you know. I'm much less like to hit ye than any of the others." He paused. "I'm sorry about your cheek. It's ritual. Must be observed."

Erik grunted. "How the hell did you know my name last night?"

"Ah." Teàrlach sat. "I'm a - a seer, of sorts. My inner eye, it can…well, _I_ can…see the thoughts of others. Feelings are easiest, but thoughts and memories too. All I had to do was look in your mind."

Erik was aghast. He shrank back; his hands moving instinctively to a defensive position as though expecting Teàrlach to attack at any moment.

"You're a witch," he spat, "a demon. I knew it! You pig-fucking -"

"Oh, will you _stop_?" Teàrlach interrupted, amazed that a helpless _prisoner_ could incite him to such frustration so quickly. "I'm not going to hurt you. And as long as you can refrain from the illustrative insults, I have no intention of forcing my way into your mind again. You can trust me."

"I do not trust _Picts_," Erik muttered fiercely, but Teàrlach noticed he had visibly relaxed.

"Fine. Don't trust me. Just let me look at those cuts." When Erik tensed again, Teàrlach rolled his eyes. "I want to make sure they don't become _infected._"

Erik nodded and stayed still as Teàrlach approached, cautiously, hands extended in a placating motion.

"I'm not a bloody wounded deer," Erik snapped. "Just get it over with."

Teàrlach couldn't help but snort, and began probing at the wound on Erik's cheek. The man gritted his teeth and breathed out heavily.

"It shouldn't hurt that much," Teàrlach said to himself. "I made the cut as clean as possible." He frowned, sniffing to check for obvious signs of infection, and inspected the chest wound as well. "Stay still," he instructed, and performed a perfunctory check of the rest of Erik's upper body, noticing what was likely several cracked ribs, badly chafed wrists, and a number of angry-looking bruises mottling his back, sides, and stomach.

"I'll have to prepare you a poultice for the cuts. It might take a while." He paused and gestured awkwardly at the food. "You should eat."

Erik held his wrists out. "And you expect me to eat like this?"

Teàrlach made a face. "I'm sure you can handle it."

A gust of air blew through the tent as Teàrlach left, and Erik shivered despite himself. He thought momentarily about asking the Pict for a tunic, to warm himself, and immediately decided against it. _To show an enemy weakness is to invite death_. His father's wisdom had held him in good stead thus far, and there was no doubt in his mind that despite Teàrlach's odd mannerisms, he was, undoubtedly, an enemy.

Erik reached awkwardly for the bread and tore off a chunk with his teeth. Chewing mechanically, he looked around in the midday gloom and wondered at the prospects for escape.

The tent was simple enough, round and sturdily built to support the semi-nomadic lifestyle of the Picts. There was only one entrance, covered with a cured leather flap beyond which Erik knew there would be at least one guard stationed, perhaps more. He knew Murtholic was an important leader among the Picts, but beyond their surprise at learning his fluency in their language, he had no idea why he was being kept alive when all his fellow soldiers had been slaughtered.

Erik reached down and rubbed at his ankles, trying to increase the circulation to his numb feet. The cheese was hard and almost tasteless, but he ate it all and washed it down with water.

He was working industriously at the tight leather thongs around his wrists, sawing against a jutting piece of wood, when Teàrlach returned.

The Pict laughed, and Erik glanced around in time to see a lock of his curly hair fall over his eyes as he shook his head in bemusement.

"I shouldn't have expected any less," Teàrlach said. "I'd surely do the same, were our roles reversed."

"You wouldn't have gotten the chance." Erik gave up on the escape attempt and settled for leveling a condescending look at his captor. "I'd have slit your throat the moment you were brought before me."

Teàrlach smiled. "Then I suppose I should be thankful that our roles are not reversed."

Erik chose not to respond, and sat still as Teàrlach approached with a foul-smelling wooden bowl. It contained a dark green paste that the Pict smeared on his fingers and began applying to the gashes on Erik's face and chest. The poultice stung fiercely, and Erik grimaced but kept quiet.

There was no warning before the tent flap opened and two men stalked in. Heavily clad in furs and leather, armed with axes and knives, they glowered through thick, bristly beards and nodded at Teàrlach in greeting.

"Murtholic wants the prisoner brought out," one of the men explained, when Teàrlach stood, surprised.

"For what purpose?" Teàrlach demanded. "He's wounded, and I'm still tending him."

"Injuries be damned," the other man scoffed, and together they reached for Erik's bound arms. He kicked out at them, but they sidestepped easily and hauled him bodily to his feet. "What your father wants, your father gets."

Teàrlach set the bowl down and trailed behind as Erik was dragged from the tent, struggling and cursing. The fact that his father had not consulted him before summoning Erik left a sour feeling in the back of Teàrlach's throat, and he had to stop to wonder why he was suddenly so anxious over the fate of a man who had just minutes ago announced his intention to slit his throat were their roles reversed.

When he saw where the men were taking him, Teàrlach's heart sank.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback so far! I really appreciate it. Hope you enjoy the new chapter :)

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><p><strong>only the air you took – part three<strong>

Teàrlach's fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms as he watched.

Wind whistled through the trees, causing branches to creak and sway as if in sympathy. A snowflake fell on Teàrlach's cheek, a precursor to a coming storm. His eyes rose involuntarily to meet Erik's, and he found he couldn't look away.

Erik knelt in the mud, arms lashed tight around a thick wooden post. His cheek rested against the rough surface and Teàrlach saw the skin around his eyes tighten as the first blow fell.

Murtholic stood steps away, watching intently. He'd chosen Gorlaic, whose brother had been killed in the raid that led to Erik's capture, to wield the horsewhip. The man grinned as he landed his first strike across Erik's bare shoulders, and wasted no time in drawing his arm back to launch another.

Erik's nostrils flared, but his mouth remained clenched firmly shut. His gaze did not waver from Teàrlach's, who felt rooted to the ground; tethered where he stood. He realized Erik was grounding himself through the connection, and offered an almost imperceptible nod.

Gorlaic set a harsh rhythm. Teàrlach didn't have to look to know that the beating was raising angry red welts across Erik's back, and that eventually the man would land a strike just so, breaking the skin. Murtholic did not inflict this punishment lightly, but Teàrlach had seen it enough times to have no trouble remembering.

Erik arched his back then, and a strangled grunt escaped, to the delight of the gathered men; shouts erupted, rowdy cheers and taunts.

Teàrlach saw Erik's eyes snap closed as Gorlaic landed another merciless strike; saw his hands curl protectively into fists and his breath come in short, harsh bursts. The Pict's cheek twitched as he held back the need to speak - to shush the men, to plead with his father that this was unnecessary, to curse Gorlaic's brutality, to tell Erik - to tell him something, anything, though he knew not what.

The clamour grew steadily as Erik's beating continued. He was grunting harshly with each strike now, leaning heavily against the wooden post for support. Teàrlach saw blood welling on his lip from efforts to keep from crying out.

"That's enough." When Murtholic's calm voice rang out, Teàrlach let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

Gorlaic scowled in disappointment. "But -"

"I said that's enough." Murtholic stepped forward and pressed his boot against Erik's raw back, digging his heel into a particularly deep gash. The move drew sharp cry of surprise from Erik, and Teàrlach's cheek clenched as he watched the man struggle with a renewed burst of fury. "There are plenty of ways to make a Roman scream."

"I will kill you first!" Erik shouted hoarsely - Teàrlach winced and wanted to strangle the man himself, for not knowing when to simply keep quiet - and earned himself a kick to the ribs. He doubled over as much as the bonds would allow, gasping.

"Get him back inside," Murtholic ordered brusquely. "Teàrlach, come with me."

Teàrlach hesitated; what he wanted was to follow Erik and take the chance to look over his wounds in private, but his father was staring pointedly so he nodded and fell in step.

"What is it, father?" Teàrlach kept his eyes forward and his voice neutral.

"The prisoner." Murtholic frowned thoughtfully. "I want to know who he really is and why he has lied to the Romans. And you -" he clapped a meaty hand on Teàrlach's shoulder, "- will find out for me."

Teàrlach licked his lips. "Father, I need permission in order to penetrate so deeply into a man's mind. I could harm him, perhaps permanently."

Murtholic laughed heartily. "Harm him all you wish, son, 'tis no business of mine. I have only kept him alive to provide entertainment for the men; but now, I find myself curious. Permission or no, I want to know who he is. Understand?"

"I understand." Teàrlach said slowly. "I need him strong enough in order to discover what it is you want to know. For that I'll have to treat his wounds and he'll need food and water."

"Of course," Murtholic agreed carelessly. "Whatever you need."

Teàrlach pressed on. "It may take some time to...develop a strong enough connection." When Murtholic's eyes narrowed unhappily, he hurried to add, "But I will move as quickly as possible, naturally, father."

"See that you do."

Erik lay, sprawled facedown on the dirt floor. Teàrlach could tell he hadn't moved since the men had left him there,and he noticed that they had retied his wrists and knotted the rope around one of the tent poles as a tether.

He'd told the two guards posted outside that they were not to be disturbed, so he hurried to Erik's side and lay a hand gently on the man's shoulder, kneeling to get a closer look. With two slender fingers, Teàrlach reached for Erik's shut eye and pried the lid open, peering at bloodshot veins and a blown pupil to gauge how aware he was.

"Senseless brutality," he muttered to himself disparagingly, gaze leaving Erik's face and trailing over his mangled back in disgust. Hesitantly, he reached a finger to his temple and focused on Erik, probing gently with his mind.

He was greeted with a crushing wave of pain and exhaustion, and pulled back immediately with a gasp, staring at Erik in wonder. Even unconscious, the man projected so _strongly_ - it was unlike anything Teàrlach had felt before. Such expressiveness was unheard of among the Picts, and Teàrlach found it felt strangely addictive. The ability to reach so subtly and feel such emotion in another...

"Exquisite," Teàrlach breathed, and wondered what it was that made Erik so expressive and easy to read.

He gently pressed a wet rag to the raw, bleeding skin of Erik's shoulderblade, causing the man to jerk awake with a groan of pain.

"...g'the hell away from me," he grumbled, squinting up at Teàrlach, who frowned and pushed him back into a prone position.

"Relax, it's me," he soothed. Then, when Erik didn't show any sign of relaxing, "I'm not going to hurt you, Erik. We've been over this. I'm cleaning your wounds, so just stay still and let me do it properly."

"Murtholic is your father," Erik said instead, but obeyed. Teàrlach continued cleaning the dirt and blood from his back.

"He is."

"You are nothing like him."

That gave Teàrlach pause, and he stared thoughtfully at a welt surrounded by a fast-blossoming bruise.

"Why do you say that?" he asked finally.

"Your kindness gives you away," Erik smirked.

"Perhaps I am just doing my duty." Teàrlach set the cloth aside and reached for his healing poultice, daubing a generous amount over the open wounds criss-crossing Erik's back.

"You surpass your duty," he continued. "Your touch is gentle, even for a healer. I am your enemy, yet you attempt to befriend me." He threw an appraising glance at Teàrlach's upper body. "Even wrapped in your furs I can see how slight you are; you are not a fighting man - _ahghh_!"

"Sorry. My hand slipped." Teàrlach smiled tightly. "Would you prefer I act more like my father?"

"No." Erik rolled onto his side, wincing, but gazed earnestly at Teàrlach. "I daresay I would like that not at all."

"Good. Then shut up and let me finish, so I can bring you some supper."


End file.
